Once More, From the Beginning
by LondonBelow
Summary: Mark and Collins are graduating, Roger is on the brink of stardom or addiction, and Benny can't decide between attraction and repulsion. Chapter Nine: Collins and Roger take a trip home.
1. The Gig in Providence

This story is a sequel to "Last Year"; it should make sense on its own but it will reference the events of that story.

Disclaimer: It's Jonathan Larson's. I'm just playing.

Dorms room are not unlike prison cells. They are not comfortable or "homey", no matter how many photographs and band posters are hung on the walls. "Homey" especially, because no dorm room will ever feel like home, no matter what, no matter if Zacktus the Cactus makes it four years, if Mom sends cookies once a month and your quilt is the one you have slept beneath every night since you were five years old.

A dorm room is never home, because it is irreparably dirty, grungy, used; there is a cum stain on my mattress (flipped to the bottom, covered with a mattress pad and sheets, but nevertheless unnerving) and one of the boys in the next room has copious amounts of loud sex with his girlfriend. No amount of cleaning can eradicate the dirtiness of a floor stomped on by too many feet.

A dorm room is in one way like my childhood home: a dorm room is a place to escape. From, not to.

"There's a band here… playing in Providence, we could go see them. The Well Hungarians." Benny laughed. "They're supposed to be all right and it's their final engagement in state."

I turned my head to give him a blank look across the room. "Why is that funny?"

"Think about it, you'll get it. Here--" he read from his paper, "The Well Hungarians are essentially another rock and roll band but, says lead singer Roger Davis--"

I interrupted him, "What?"

Benny looked up from his paper. "What what?" he asked.

"Roger _Davis_?" I repeated. Benny nodded. "Benny-- I have to go to Providence."

---

The beer was cheap and warm and not very good, but I took my big plastic cup and sipped a bit of foam into my mouth. Benny sat at the bar with a mildly bored expression. He couldn't understand, because I had never dared tell him what went on back in Scarsdale. I left that behind, just like Roger…

_"I was never good enough to love you, Mark…"_

_My hand sweated blood onto the receiver. Blood pulsed too heavy in my ears, too light, and I was dizzy._

_"Tell Tom good-bye for me."_

…left me behind.

So what was I doing here, a wild-eyed college boy in a somewhat trashy bar listening to the set finishing, and wondering if that's him, if that's my Roger.

That's not my Roger.

It cannot be him. Under the bright lights, this man is certainly not my Roger Davis, who basked in every approving smile I shot his way and cried and punched out bullies and walls. This man, this man who plays his guitar with tremors of his entire being and sings as though he knows how beautiful his throaty voice is, cannot be my one-time best friend, my almost boyfriend.

Everything was for nothing, and I was a fool for believing it. Five long years I sustained myself by thinking only of the times we were friends; five years, and still sleepless nights I saw his face and wondered where he was. Was he safe? Healthy? Happy? I hoped so, but did not dare believe it. I hoped, the way teenage girls hope to meet actors and rock stars: I certainly doubted the likelihood of a dream coming true.

And it had not come true. Dreams did not come true.

I tapped Benny's shoulder and jerked my head. "C'mon, let's go."

His eyes frowned. "I thought you had some business with…"

"Thanks everyone, you've been a great audience and I hope you all have a nice night. Once again, we are the Well Hungarians, keep an eye 'cause we've got no intention of stopping yet." He gave the crowd an over-confident wink as the band carried their instruments off the stage.

Benny stood; I set down my beer. That was three dollars ninety-five I would never see again, but so what. It wasn't Roger. It was some bleached blond with muscles and cut-off T-shirt sleeves and a hoop earring, and I needed very badly to get out. Just as Benny and I were heading for the door, someone grabbed my shoulder.

"Mark?"

I turned. It was him, the front man, the Roger Davis who wasn't _my_ Roger Davis, standing before me with all his rock star glory and a hopeful smile on his face. "Mark! Mark Cohen?" I nodded. "Jesus Christ, Mark, don't you even remember me?" He looked hurt.

I adjusted my glasses. Roger Davis. "Roger?" I asked. It was a stupid question: of course his name was Roger, I knew that, everyone knew that from the advertisements and the band posters. "I thought…" I laughed. "You're so… different! You're… oof." He hugged me. "Not so different." I patted his back.

"Come on." Roger released me and grabbed my hand. "Let's go… somewhere. I dunno. You're in Providence! What the hell are you doing in Providence? Come on, let's go out, I want to know everything that's been going on--"

"Wait a minute."

_"I never could have been good enough."_

"Roger. That night--"

He shook his head. "Mark. We're here now. Everything is different, I am different, you. Please, let's just… let's forget that day, all right? You're still my best friend, Mark."

I nodded. Forget? Forget the day you broke my heart, Roger? Forget how it hurt? Shall I forget the boy who gave me my first orgasm? But he had that look in his eyes, and I nodded. "Okay. This is Benny, my roommate-- sorry, Benny, Roger, Roger, Benny. Come on, let's get outta here."

It was late but the air was warm. Roger took deep breaths and stared up at the stars as we ambled down the sidewalk, none of us speaking. What could be said? There was no idle chatter because the occasion was too important, too breathtaking-- for Benny, too awkward-- for banter.

"This place okay?" Roger asked.

"Yeah."

"Sure."

We went to a cheap restaurant that served greasy burgers and French fries. Roger had a "brief argument" with the catsup bottle, and for a moment I saw my friend again, tongue clamped between his teeth as he smacked the bottle, annoyed. Eventually he ceded and used his fries to start the flow. "So what are you doing in Rhode Island?" Roger asked me.

"Well…" I flushed slightly with pride. "I'm going to Brown."

Roger dropped his fries. "You're serious?" he asked. I nodded. "Oh my… congratulations, Mark! That's great!"

I blushed. "Thanks."

"Man, I always knew you'd do it."

"Aww, but, if you hadn't taught me fractions I'd never…"

"You'd've got there," Roger stated, nodding. "You'd've done it one way or the other, Mark. Oh, man, that's so… does Collins know?"

I shook my head and fished a piece of ice out of my drink. The ice squeaked before cracking between my molars. "Collins went to, uh… UC Santa Cruz," I said. "He left a few months after you did." Senior year was probably the worst of my life. Roger was gone. Collins wrote, but it was never the same and I knew he was only hiding his unhappiness until he stopped writing altogether.

Some things never changed. Despite having his mouth full, Roger asked, "Are you happy?"

A rush of blood flushed through my body. _Are you happy._ It had been so long since anyone asked me that question. I was proud enough when Dad paraded me out at Hanukkah and summer holidays, but afterwards always felt dirty and unloved. Brown was great, but still I felt lonely. I wanted someone, a lover or a best friend, someone to be very close to. I needed someone to love.

"Yeah," I said, and I meant it. "I'm really happy."

Roger grinned.

I told him about everything, from graduation to my sister's kids to the year my mom tried to teach me to make latkes. Roger listened to every word, really listened to every word. It was the best time I had had in years: sitting in that restaurant with Roger, with my best friend and it was like nothing had changed after all those years.

At the night's end, Roger gave me his phone number. "I'm in New York," he told me. "Benny-- nice to meet you." He hugged me and kissed my cheek. "Take care of yourself, Mark."

I glowed. "Good-bye."

"Not for too long," Roger promised, hearing the rawness in my voice.

In my dorm that night, I pressed my face into my pillow and cried myself to sleep like some pathetic freshman on his first day. A dorm never feels like home…

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. In Dire Need of a Blowjob

Discliamer: Not mine! Don't sue!

COLLINS

I was working on a paper, which meant sitting at the beat-up table that passed as a desk, squinting as the words fought to shape completely incoherent sentences. I had another inch and a half on this page and a ridiculous professor who actually care about things like that. More than an inch of space at the bottom of the page, and he knocked down the grade on the paper.

The clock ticked. The sink dripped. The joint on my pillow promised relief once I finished my work, but I doubted I would smoke it. Smoking alone has always been a bit like drinking alone, for me. I glanced at the joint and wished, for the umpteenth time, that my back didn't hurt and my ass wasn't numb from sitting so long working on this stupid paper.

_In conclusion, Professor, your repressed homosexuality is making you an unhappy, difficult old prune and you are in desperate need of a blowjob. That's not an offer, perv._

I didn't write it, but I wanted to. Nothing is more powerful than the truth in the proper words.

"Fuuuck." I let out the word slowly, like a creaky hinge on a door, trying to fill some of the space left by the noiselessness of the loft. It felt full of ghosts without Roger's noise-- guitar at all hours, cassette tapes, his singing, snoring, and farting in his sleep.

And as obscene as Roger's mouth could be, no amount of obscenity undid the quiet of his absence.

_Can a modern playwright compare with William Shakespeare, the accepted "greatest playwright of all time"? I believe one can, not by any uncanny talent but by a pure honesty and artful comparison between the events of today and those of history. Tony Kushner's works are more relevant, thus better reading for young people who in their teenage years are more concerned with rebellion than marriage. The evolution of society--_

I heard the door slam shut, shuffling footsteps and something heavy and soft thudding to the ground. Roger came into my room moments later. He flopped down on my bed. "Hey, Thomas."

"Hey, Roger." I loved Roger and honestly I was about ready to leap up and hug him, but something stopped me. It was "cooler" if we acted nonchalant, not that I cared about being cool, but that was Roger's way, the affected fuck.

"Col, do you remember… when we were in high school… do you remember Mark?"

I stopped typing and turned to face Roger. He had come home early, I could tell, looked like straight from his last gig. He had kohl around his eyes and he was eating the gloss off his lips. I asked him, "Mark Cohen?" _You mean the first boy whose heart you broke?_

"Uh-huh."

"I haven't seen him in five years but yeah, I remember Mark."

_Mom sat opposite me at the table, and she talked for a while about nothing in particular. It was evening; she had finally got off work. I already knew something was wrong, I knew when she called and said she'd pick up pizza I knew something was wrong, because Mom hated pizza. She was the type to buy organic cookies._

_After a while, she held my hand and told me, "Tom, your friend Roger…" My blood ran cold. It had never happened before then. Your friend Roger WHAT!_

_The strange thing is, I knew if it was Mark, my first thought would be suicide. But Roger… Roger… What had that bastard done to him now? "What about Roger, Mom?" My mom and Roger's mom worked together, so whatever had happened, I trusted her to know the truth._

_"He ran away. A couple of days ago."_

_For a moment, I understood-- I understood the words, but not what they meant. Then, slowly, 'Roger ran away' translated to 'Roger is gone'. "Where did he go?" I asked._

_Mom shook her head. "No idea. His parents called nearby relatives and filed a report, and his brother thinks they should do a piece on a newscast-- you know, we aren't angry, just come home."_

_I nodded. "Bullshit. He'll know it, too." I shook my head. There were tears in my eyes. I swiped at them. "He won't come back." I knew that. Roger was gone for good, and maybe it was just as well. I would miss him, but could I subject him to that, what I knew his home life to be like, simply so I would not miss him? Of course not. That was selfish._

_So I had my cry over Roger, and spent the night reconciling myself to the fact that I would never see him again, and the next day I went to Mark's._

"What got you thinking about Mark?" I asked.

Roger rocked himself slightly, a kind of jacaranda-in-a-spring-breeze motion, and he said, "I bet if I ever see Mark again he'd hate my guts."

I shook my head. Mark wasn't like that. It had never even occurred to him to be angry with Roger. "He wouldn't."

"He should. From his perspective, anyway."

"Rog, why are we talking about this?"

He propped himself up on his elbows. "Mark's going to Brown."

I did not immediately catch on. "Good for him." I turned back to my paper. I needed another three or four lines, and-- I spun around. Roger was laughing at me. "Mark's going to Brown… you were in Providence… You didn't?"

He nodded. "I did."

"Well…" I laughed. Of all the coincidences in the world! "How is he? Is he okay?"

Roger shrugged. "I dunno, man, he's like… he's exactly the same kid he was five years ago. I took him and his friend-- friend's called, uh, Barney, somethin' like that-- I took them out and I told Mark that I wanted to hear everything, and he told me. Everything."

"And?"

"Kid needs therapy." I threw a book at Roger. He caught it and objected, "You think I'm joking, I'm not. Mark needs someone to pay attention to him, to, like, love him." He shook his head. "My one regret in leaving Scarsdale, leaving him behind."

"You want to start it up with him again?"

Roger shook his head. "I dunno, man. I don't want to hurt him." He froze, lost in his own thoughts.

It sounded to me like a reason _to_ start up a relationship, but before I could say anything Roger reanimated himself and babbled excitedly about Rhode Island and gigs and his "music career". He didn't need me for this conversation. I returned to my paper and let him talk. After five minutes or so I got up to turn off the light.

"Col?" Roger asked. He was stretched out on my bed, looking at me with a pathetic, imploring expression, and I knew he was thinking of Mark again.

"What's up, Rog?"

"Can I stay in here tonight?"

"Yeah, no problem."

"Thanks."

---

Roger liked to bring home take-out after his gigs. In Roger's opinion, fried rice _could_ be refried, that was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. Some of Roger's other habits, I doubt if he had an opinion on them. I doubt if he thought about them at all. Finding your roommate sitting up at seven a.m. because he hasn't gone to sleep yet but has in fact spent the entire night smoking pot, writing songs, and eating cold wontons clad in nothing but a blanket which keeps slipping… it's very amusing. Roger generally is.

The disadvantage to this was Roger's habit of going to the cheapest place he knew. He was thrifty to a fault, and this shop was opened next to a pound.

(Not really.)

I called him on my way home. "Hey, how's it going?"

"Good… you called me at a bar." He giggled. "I sound like an alcoholic."

"Roger, are you drunk?"

"No."

"Look, promise me you won't go to the cheap Chinese place tonight."

"What?" Roger sounded truly offended. "Why not? I love that place."

I rolled my eyes. "You love The Eagles."

I didn't mind The Eagles, either, but Roger seemed to think them not quite "rock" enough. "Dude, shh! Okay, I won't go to the cheap Chinese place!"

What I really needed-- badly enough that even I knew it-- was a lay. In the three years since my last boyfriend I had been, well, not celibate but alone. Having Roger kept me from being lonely-- he was always there or just a phone call away, willing to listen to any stupid shit I had to say. And he needed me as much as I needed him.

But I still wanted to be fucked. I was twenty-one, and while my roommate (same age) worked off his sexual frustration on a groupie after every few shows, my sex life consisted entirely of my left hand and sometimes a warm, damp washcloth.

"Okay, no cheap Chinese!" Roger announced, striding into the loft with a pink plastic bag in his hand. "Mid-price Thai. What the hell's the occasion?" He began setting out cartons and plastic spoon-forks.

I picked one up. "Spoon-forks? You have no taste."

"Snob. Some of us were raised in Scarsdale. Besides." He took the spoon-fork from me and placed it down again. "The spork is a miracle feat of engineering."

"You're a miracle feat of engineering."

"Your face is a miracle feat of engineering."

I don't know when we started the "your face" retorts.

"Anyway, despite the spoon-forks, we are celebrating. I got a job." My days as a full-time student were over. There were minor loans to be repaid, but, well, when one is a genius and desperate to get out of school, it's amazing how helpful people are. Roger liked to say I had so many scholarships, even I couldn't count them all.

That was his idea of a joke.

Now he laughed through a mouthful of rice and green curry, swallowed quickly and said, "Congratulations, man! So what're you doing?"

"I'm teaching."

Roger's jaw dropped. Luckily this time his mouth was empty. No doubt he expected "I'm a barrista at Starbucks" or something. "You're _teaching_?"

"Uh-huh."

"You're actually a professor. Like, right now? Right this minute?"

I laughed. "No, not right now, but starting in summer session, just after I graduate."

We celebrated: sporks, joking, a couple of joints and a couple of beers. We were pretty damn happy. But once the buzz was gone, we were nothing, again, but two lonely kids in a big city. Roger and I were never lovers. There was no physical attraction, certainly on my part and probably on his. But it was nice to lie down at night and not be alone, and the inverse a terrifying prospect.

"Thomas?"

It was dark, and I was the kind of tired that keeps you awake. "Hmm?"

"Santa Cruz was that bad?"

"I dunno, Roger. Might've been okay if I let myself adjust." But no, I hadn't. I had looked around my dorm and walked outside, stood on the grass and watched the fog roll in off the ocean, and all I felt was a painful longing. So I worked.

"How'd you do it?"

"What?"

"Graduate."

"I've told you."

He answered, predictably, "I don't care. Tell me again."

I sighed. "I took a lot of classes. Most people take four or five classes a semester." These are the basics, things Roger doesn't know. He sighs and shifts slightly, but he doesn't interrupt. "I had seven. Seven classes… they gave me credit for my APs, community college stuff. I took winter classes, that one summer I took classes, and night classes. And I graduated."

"In a year," Roger added.

"In a year," I echoed.

"'Night, Col."

"'Night, Roger."

To be continued!

And yes, what Collins did is imporbable... but it's Collins! Benefit of the doubt?

Reviews would awesome!


	3. New Roommates

ROGER

I don't know where I am.

Is that a fuckin' trip or what? I have no fuckin' clue where I am. I'm… I'm here, we're in somebody's house, there's people everywhere, dancing, the music is so loud I can see the walls move. And I could be anyone, _anyone_, I mean it, I don't have to be me at all and because I don't have to I am filled with a warm, pulsing desire to. To be me. I'm me.

That's profound.

"I'm me!" I shout. No one hears me, or no one cares, or was that a cheer and not a part of the music? I don't know. I don't know and it's so fuckin' glorious and… and…

Who is 'me', anyway? Who am I?

"Does anybody know who I am?"

I'm… me. I feel tall. Maybe everyone else is short. I'm here, I'm clean-- yes, I'm clean. I glance into a room and there are a bunch of people snorting lines. Yuck. I've done lines, that shit's like shooting a gun up your nose, it hurts and bleeds and makes everything taste like aspirin for hours afterwards. Not worth it. I'm clean, then.

Right?

What's in my hand? A cup. It's a red plastic cup full of-- I taste it-- disgusting, warm, flat beer, Bud or some other pisswater. Disgusting. I toss the cup on the floor and that feels good, this disgusting beer soaking into this carpet that was once white and it's the same carpet my parents have in their bedroom, had, shit, am I at their house? My head begins to swim.

No, no, that's not possible. I can't be there again. This cannot be possible. Please! And I'm scared again, I'm a scared little seven-year-old old huddled under the table, holding my knees and crying as quietly as I can and--

There are photographs on the wall: a family. Mom, Dad, Sister, Sister. No brother. No boys. I breathe again. This is not their house. This is not my parents' house. This is my house!

Not literally. I don't live in a house; I live in a loft; obviously this is not my house in the sense of literally belonging to me but this is my _life_, my time, here, now and this dull mood sloughs off--oh. Hello.

She doesn't say her name. She doesn't say a word, actually, she just pushes me up against the wall and kisses me hard across the mouth and all I see of her is closed eyes and dark hair and a forehead caked with powder that doesn't hide her acne, and then I don't care because she's unzipped my jeans and she puts me inside her and thrusts on me. I didn't know I was hard, I had forgotten all about _this_ but as she guides me through it with her mouth on my neck I remember and this is very, very good.

I orgasm like it's my first and maybe that was. I can't remember ever having one before but I can't remember much from before, but I'm not a virgin. No, I've had orgasms before. I've had lovers before.

After she pulls my pants up and kisses me again and she turns and walks away-- that's it, walks off.

I stay in the hallway for a while, then wander into the first room I find and someone asks me do I want a share. "Huh?"

"You want to share?" he repeats, loudly over the thumping music, and shows me powder on a little piece of aluminum foil and I say I don't snort lines and he says no, no this isn't lines, this is better, all you do is breathe, man, just remember to breathe.

I do like he says, just remember to breathe while he holds a lighter under the foil and

---

"Huh?"

I open my eyes and look around. The last thing I remember is dancing. It was fun, just a bunch of us losing ourselves and-- we? Who the heck is "we"? Who… oh, shit. I remember the dancing not exactly stopping, continuing and somehow clothes were disappearing though no one seemed to be undressing, their clothes just _disappeared_. I remember being confused. I remember--

"Fuck!"

I jump off the couch. No way. I didn't…

A flash of memory: someone, someone male, his hands roving across my shoulders as he dances against me, and I can feel that he's hard--

I did not do that.

Another flash, more feeling than anything else: someone inside me pushing me against a wall, except between me and the wall there is a person and I am up between her legs--

I would not do that.

My memories are interrupted by the moment, and a sudden pressing need. I wander into the bathroom and pee hard. I needed that. After washing my hands it occurs to me that if my memories _are_ accurate, I'll have marks on me. I pull the neckline of my T-shirt over.

"Shit!" There are hickeys on my shoulder.

My stomach growls. I find a container of Chinese food in the kitchen; smells okay. There's some other food, too: peanut butter, jelly, bread, that sort of thing. I heat some oil in a pot and toss in what's left of the fried rice. Once that's cooked I carry the pot to the table and eat, trying to remember all I can about last night.

I remember lying down and someone giving me a blowjob. I remember sex. I remember a lot of sex, sodomy, me taking, giving, women too, I think I ate someone out. I remember the moans, but not the voices. I remember no faces.

Oh my G-d, I was at an orgy.

I remember the taste of vodka and how good I felt after using that drug-- what was that?-- and making love to someone or various someones on a grass lawn.

"Hey."

The door slams shut. Collins tosses his bag on the couch and grabs a fork before joining me at the table. "Hey. You're home already?" I ask.

"It's two-thirty, Roger. Did you just get up?"

"Yeah. How was school?"

He rolls his eyes. "How can anyone be so idiotic? I ask you, Roger, _how?_" Collins had the glorious job of educating the summer school students, high school students looking to pick up early credits mostly. "They grunt. That's how they talk, they grunt, literally. Like wookies. One of them carries a stuffed cow. I mean, the kid's bright but… fuck, a stuffed cow! And she calls it her best friend!"

"Mark did that."

"What?"

"Well, in second grade, but… yeah, he told me, his best friend was Worry Worm. He told the worm his worries and then he didn't have to worry anymore. He was like seven, though."

Collins squints at me, and I know why. For the second time in about a month, I have willingly mentioned Mark Cohen, a previously unapproachable topic of conversation. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Hungry." As evidenced! I cannot get enough of this rice. "I think…" I briefly consider telling him about the orgy-- but why would I do that? I know how Collins feels about sex.

"Are you okay?" Collins asks again. "Not just this moment, I mean in general. Are you okay, Roger?"

I pause. "Are you dying?"

"No--"

"Are you moving?"

"No."

"Good. Don't scare me like that."

---

I see him as the bus pulls into the depot. He spots me, tugs his companion's sleeve, and waves furiously, grinning ear to ear. I shake my head, amused by his excitement, and I wave back. Mark is the brightest thing I've ever seen, shining and smiling with all his teeth, all the while his fair hair and skin are paled by a ridiculously bright red sweater.

He disappears for a while, going to get his bag. I head over to a coffee machine. This stuff always tastes like battery acid, and I'm growing to like the taste. I take my first sip and swallow shortly before hearing someone scream my name.

I set down the coffee. Mark has dropped his bag and is sprinting through the bus depot like someone's held a blowtorch to his ass. He crashes into me and wraps his arms around my neck. I can hear him breathing in the scent of me, a "uniquely disgusting" (to quote Collins) blend of tobacco smoke, sweat and something clean.

Meanwhile Mark has grabbed handfuls of my T-shirt and is squeezing me with a surprising strength. "Roger," he says. "Roger, it's you, I can't believe it's you, it's you, Roger…"

Before Mark can cry, I hug him. "It's okay, Mark." The poor little guy. The years haven't been kind to him, I know that without asking. "It's okay." I cradle his head with one hand, the way I learned to hold my baby sister years ago.

His friend comes up to us-- Benny. I had forgotten, but Mark mentioned him on the phone. Benny carries two bags, one of which he drops beside me and Mark. It must be awkward for him to stand by and watch his best friend hug a complete stranger, but I won't stop, not for him.

I feel horrible. What must have happened to Mark? What was done to him to make him this way? He's… he's what he always was. He's just a poor little kid who needs someone to cuddle him. He always had flashes of this in him, but I had thought it gone, some of my false confidence rubbed off.

The years were not kind to Mark, and I was not there to protect him.

"You okay?" I ask. Mark nods. I release him and kiss his cheek-- quickly, but I can't resist. I take a good look at him for the second time after five years. He hasn't aged a day. "Come on." I grab his bag. "I'll take you home."

Mark marvels at the subway. He takes out his old camera-- I'm surprised the thing still works!-- and films. Benny is easy with it, but Mark… "This is your first time in the city, isn't it, Mark?"

"First time in five years," Mark says, then blushes. I love when Mark blushes. "I'm a little worried about your roommate," he said. "We don't exactly have anywhere to go if--"

"It's cool," I promise. "I'm sure he'll let you stay, he's a really nice guy."

Mark's first glimpse of Alphabet City is one of terror and awe. "You live here?" he asks. Benny's face is contorted with disgust.

"Home sweet home," I say. "Don't worry, Mark. I'll keep you safe." Mark smiles a half smile and follows me to the loft. Benny has nowhere else to go, or, I am fairly certain, he would.

Collins is in his room. I could have planned this no more perfectly myself. I knock on the door. "Hey!" I call. Mark is sitting in a chair looking thoroughly uncomfortable. Benny sits opposite him. He looks bored. "There's some guys here, they need somewhere to stay, I told them here was fine!"

"Very funny, Roger," Collins returns dryly. He isn't in the mood.

I turn to Mark and give him a thumbs-up. His brow is furrowed, trying to place a memory, and I'm betting that memory is in the next room. "I'm not kidding. They're right here. Look, these guys are cool so if you don't say anything, I'll just help them move in."

The door flies open. "Are you out of your--" Then Collins sees Mark, Mark sees Collins, and the penny drops. "Mark?"

"Thomas!"

Another hug, then both turn to me. "You're a fuck," Collins says, smiling. "I love you, Roger, but you're a stupid fuck."

"_You_'re a stupid fuck for falling for it."

"Your face is a stupid fuck."

"That doesn't make a lot of sense."

Mark says, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because then you wouldn't be surprised!"

When Benny is at last introduced, he wants to know if Collins is, "_The_ Tom Collins?"

Collins laughs. "I doubt there are two sets of parents with that sense of humor," he says.

---

It's not a bad night, all in all. We go to the Life Café, where a group of teenagers falls silent when we enter. After a moment, I realize, and I begin to snicker. "Kids, huh?" I say, elbowing Collins. He grins at me.

"Hello, children," he says to the teenagers. One had French fries half-in his mouth. They fall into his lap.

"Um… h-hi, Professor," a boy stammers.

Collins asks how they are and reminds them about a paper, then we head off, leaving the teenagers blushing and whispering. Collins turns to me and we fall into each other laughing. We sit down at a table in the corner. Mark sits next to Benny, who is careful to sit opposite Collins. I don't mind. I take a little getting used to.

"Why did they call you that?" Mark asks.

"Oh. I'm teaching now."

"NYU," I add.

"But… don't you need a graduate degree to be a professor?" Mark asks.

Benny nods. "He has one," he says. "Just graduated, right?"

"You got a fan, Tom."

"Yes, I'm catching up to you, Roger. Except of course that mine will-- hopefully-- never throw a bra at me."

"He looks to be about a C-cup."

"You're disgusting."

"Your face is disgusting."

"Man, that hurt!"

"Your--"

"Yeah, I know. My face hurt."

Mark looks down into his Coke, crestfallen. "Mark." He looks up. "What's up?"

He smiles weakly. "Nothing," he lies. But he can't get into the fun, so we head home after a few rounds of drinks and fries.

I ask Mark again if anything's wrong, this time standing in the bathroom in our pajamas (his, anyway; sweats and a ratty old T-shirt for me). Mark is squeezing paste onto his toothbrush. I flip up the toilet seat and almost feel guilty that Mark has to raise his voice-- but I need to go! "It's just, I don't know where I am, Roger," he explains around his toothbrush. He pauses to spit, but I elbow him out of the way and wash my hands. "I've never done anything like this. My dad's pissed, he won't even talk to me."

I clear out. Mark spits. While he's bent over the sink, I rub his back. "You'll be okay, Mark. Your dad doesn't call you, don't call him. You're your own person, Mark, but you got me and Collins. I'm still your best friend, right?"

Mark finishes spitting. "You know you are."

"I missed you, Mark." I hug him, more from my need than his, and he hugs me in return. "Now, let's get you to bed." I release him and bend to lift him up.

"Roger!" Mark shrieks. He throws his arms around my neck as I carry him from the room. "Roger, put me down! Aah, you're gonna drop me! Rog--"

"Mark, shut up." In his room, I set him on his bed. Benny looks up from his book. "Roommate delivery," I tell him. Mark lets go of my neck. I ruffle his hair. "'Night, Mark."

"'Night, Roger."

"'Night, Benny." I head for the door, then pause. "You need me, Mark, I'm just one room over, okay?"

"Roger, you don't hafta," Mark protests.

I smirk. "Yeah, I do. Your mom made me promise."

"Fucker!" Mark throws his pillow at me. I catch it and toss it back.

It's nice to have my best friend back. And I'm happy.


	4. Camping

Disclaimer: It's Jonathan's. I'm just playing. The stories are fake. The song is from _Scary Stories for Stormy Nights_.

But then, name me one actor who didn't, hasn't, or wouldn't head for New York at the first hint of a chance.

**Int.-- Convenience Store-- Day**

_Benjamin Coffin III, "Benny", stands before a plastiglass refrigerator door, eye the nuclear hues of Gatorade bottles. He's just gone to an audition and has a feeling he won't be getting a callback, and he needs a bit of a pick-me-up before heading home. Gatorade should do it, the few crumpled bills in his pocket. He selects blue, falters and exchanges it for a green._

_Behind Benny appears a woman: small, blond, with a slight smirk on her face. He steps back. She grabs a red Gatorade and heads down a snack aisle as he heads for the cashier. They arrive at the same time and pause before a theatrical cliché: the just-bumped-into-you._

BENNY

Go ahead.

_She giggles._

THE WOMAN

Thank you.

_She purchases her Gatorade and Twinkies. He does likewise-- without the Twinkies-- and is surprised to find her waiting outside. She offers a hand and a smile that pushes dimples onto her cheeks._

THE WOMAN

Alison.

BENNY

Benny.

_They shake. She offers him a Twinkie. He accepts: lunch._

BENNY

So what brings you to Alphabet City?

_She isn't a resident. Her clothes are too costly, her hair too clean, her nails too… hell, manicured._

ALISON

Actually, I'm here with my dad. He has some tenants around here.

BENNY

Oh, a landlord.

ALISON

Yes. _She laughs._ Mostly… most of his tenants don't live here. This is sort of charity work. He gives a lot of extensions, a lot of leeway. It's like our contribution to the arts.

BENNY

Um… That sounds nice of him. Are you an artist yourself?

ALISON

No. I do love the theater, though. So what about you? Do you live here?

BENNY

Yes. Yes, I do. I'm an actor. Just off an audition, actually.

ALISON

Really? _She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. She is truly fascinated._ Tell me about that. Please, I'd love to hear. Did you get the part?

BENNY

I hope so, but… I doubt it. I don't think Faust is, uh, quite as impressive today as he was in his time. _He chuckles. _But, you know, in this city there's an endless supply of actors. There's also an endless supply of auditions.

ALISON

Do you--

MR. GREY (_from down the avenue, calls_)

Allie!

ALISON

Oh-- I've got to go. It was nice to meet you, Benny. Do you think I could call you, maybe, next time I'm in the city?

BENNY

Yeah, that sounds great! Um… _He searches his pockets for a paper and pen. Alison produces both._ Thanks. _Benny scrawls his number. _Just ask for Benny-- I have three roommates.

ALISON

All right. Goodbye, Benny! _She dashes off._

BENNY

Good-bye.

**Int.-- The Loft-- Day**

_When Benny enters, Collins is on the couch. Mark is standing by the sink with Roger patting his shoulder._

ROGER

It's no big deal, Mark. You don't have to be scared.

MARK

_Slightly breathless, too high._ Scared? Scared, Roger? I'm… it's just… _he shakes his head._

BENNY

What's going on? What happened to Mark?

COLLINS

He's fine. We made rent but we got no electricity for the next month. _Mark makes a small noise._ It'll be okay, I promise you.

BENNY

But don't you know what your rent is?

ROGER

You know, I didn't see you offering much.

BENNY

I was trying to get a job!

ROGER

Don't say that so uppity.

MARK

Roger--

BENNY

Don't act like I'm wastin' my time.

COLLINS

Guys.

ROGER  
_Almost yelling:_ Don't try to blame us--

BENNY

Like you're trying to blame me?

ROGER

You don't belong here, you son of a bitch.

MARK

Roger!

ROGER

He doesn't know what we are, Mark. Benny isn't like us, he doesn't belong, and the sooner we all realize that the better.

_There is a distinct awareness that Roger is only staying in the room to stay by Mark's side._

BENNY

Hey. Don't--

MARK

Benny--

BENNY

--think we don't--

ROGER

Just you, _Mark_ belongs.

BENNY

And isn't this--

COLLINS (_teacher voice_)  
Benny, Roger, stop it!

_They do, shocked. Collins shakes his head. Mark gives a dry little sob and leaves. Roger tries to follow, but Mark slams the door in his face. Benny raises his eyebrows. 'Happy?' Roger throws him a dirty look before climbing the fire escape up to the roof. This leaves Benny and Collins alone._

BENNY

I, um… I'm sorry.

COLLINS

Whatever, man.

BENNY

No, really. I just don't like that guy. I know he and Mark have history, but…

COLLINS

You don't trust him?

BENNY

Look, I don't know what happened before Mark came to Brown, but he was not in great shape. And I don't think that Roger is the best influence for him now. Can't you see how… how dangerous he is? Especially for someone like Mark, someone who looks up to him, who wants to believe in him. People like you and me are not going to be pulled down. But Roger's bad news and he's bad for Mark.

COLLINS

You won't like this, Ben, but I like Roger. A lot. He's a good guy.

BENNY

I don't see that.

COLLINS

Do you want to?

BENNY

I think if it was there, I would have seen it.

_Collins just shrugs and returns to grading papers. Benny, realizing his room is occupied, heads into the bathroom for a shower. The water runs; Collins rises and goes to the bedroom door. He knocks._

COLLINS

Mark? It's Collins. Can I come in?

MARK

I'd like to be alone for a while, please.

COLLINS

Okay. Well, I'm right out here, okay? If you want to talk.

**Int.-- the Loft-- Afternoon, towards Evening**

_Collins is cooking (their stove is gas, not electric, so no electricity does not mean no food). Mark helps. Benny sits on the couch, daydreaming. Suddenly the window is shoved open and Roger enters. He's grinning ear to ear but says nothing, just goes into his room._ _After a moment he emerges carrying two pillows, a sheet and a teddy bear. He climbs out the fire escape and disappears to the roof._

_Roger reenters the room._

ROGER

I'm going camping tonight.

MARK

What?

ROGER

I'm going camping tonight. You guys wanna come? And that's you, too, Benny!

COLLINS

I'm in.

MARK

Um… sure, I guess.

BENNY

What do you mean 'camping'?

ROGER

I'm gonna toast s'mores, smoke some ganja, tell Mark ghost stories and sleep under the stars.

BENNY

You mean on the roof?

ROGER

Yes, I mean on the roof. Are you coming?

BENNY

Okay.

**Ext.-- The Roof-- Night**

_It is dark. Mark, Benny, Collins and Roger sit around a cluster of candles. They are smiling, possibly with the aid of the aforementioned ganj'._

ROGER

Okay-- Collins. If you had a kid, what would you name it?

COLLINS

Ah, that's easy. Harper. Carry on the family tradition.

_Mark, Roger, and Benny laugh._

ROGER  
So is everyone ready for a scary story?

COLLINS, BENNY

Yeah.

MARK

I dunno…

ROGER

_Wrapping an arm around Mark's shoulders._ Don't worry. Nothing's gonna hurt you, I promise. Okay?

MARK

Okay.

ROGER

Good. Okay, this is a story about a haunted house. No, it's true. It's not a house, it's a cellar in a building here in the city. Uptown somewhere. This cellar's haunted. All that's in it is an old furnace and, it's impossible to stay the night. So a couple years ago, I was crashed a floor up-- me, the entire band, that's how we could afford it. And I saw this kid going down into the basement-- he was maybe twelve, fourteen. Street kid. So I asked him, what are you doing? And he told me he had been offered two hundred bucks to stay the night in the cellar. I thought, whatever. Then in the middle of the night, these sort of thumping noises woke me up, and I heard this kid, terrified, ask, "Wh-what do you want?" Then a deeper voice answered, "I want YOU!"

_On "You", Roger lunges at Mark, who yelps. Roger grabs him around the waist and tickles his tummy. Mark squeals and play-fights._

MARK  
AAH!

_Roger stops. Mark has fallen across his lap._

ROGER

I'm not gonna let the ghosts get you, Mark.

MARK (_sits up_)

I'm not really scared.

ROGER

Oh, but the night is young. Thomas. Regale us with the Ghost-of-Santa-Cruz story.

COLLINS (_rolls his eyes_)

How many times have I told you this story?

ROGER

Donno. Pleeeease? Then Benny can tell ghost stories about Brown.

BENNY

Mark would know the stories, too.

ROGER

Okay. You tell one, then he'll tell one. Collins first.

COLLINS

Okay. Santa Cruz gets a thick fog, so any spiritual remnants we got, they come from crashes. And it's not rare, there are spirits, mostly around the history majors-- not coincidentally. The history majors are drawn to them. I'm not a history major, so I only had one run-in with a ghost. I was walking home. It was late and I was off the paths. It's pretty rural around the college. There was a boy there, he had stopped to tie up his show and we started talking, ended up walking back to the dorms together. When we stopped we said good-bye and we kissed. That was my ghost.

MARK

How did you know he was a ghost?

COLLINS

You ever kissed a ghost?

MARK

No.

COLLINS

You'll know.

ROGER

Benny?

BENNY

All right. Well the Brown ghost is a veteran from the Revolutionary War. He wears his uniform, carries a bayonet, and he stays in the dorms. People see him sometimes, searching around.

ROGER

That's it?

BENNY

Yeah.

COLLINS

Boy, even I tell a better ghost story.

_A round of applause._

ROGER

Okay. Mark. You know any?

MARK

Um… only one. I saw these ghost. They're in the bell tower, they don't… go anywhere, they just hang around.

_Slowly, Collins and Roger "get it". They chuckle._

COLLINS

Oh, that was good Mark.

ROGER

That was really good.

MARK

Thank you.

COLLINS

Rog, you should do the song.

MARK

What's the song?

ROGER

It's good. Okay.

_He chants:_

ROGER

Don't ever laugh as the hearse goes by

For you may be the next to die!

They wrap you up in a big white sheet

From your head down to your feet.

_He pretended to wrap Mark in a "sheet", really just his arms. Mark squirmed._

ROGER (cont'd.)

They put you in a big black box

And cover you with dirt and rocks.

All goes well for about a week

But then the box begins to leak.

The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out

_Roger's fingers poked at Mark, "crawling in and out"._

ROGER (cont'd.)

The worms play hopscotch on your snout.

_He tapped Mark on the nose._

ROGER (cont'd.)

The eat your eyes, they eat your nose

They eat the jelly between your toes.

A big green worm with rolling eyes

Crawls in your stomach and out your eyes.

_Roger traced this route with on arm, his hand blossoming open as the worm crawled out._

ROGER (cont'd.)

Your stomach turns a slimy green

And pus pours out like whipping cream.

You spread it on a slice of bread

And that's what you eat when you are dead!

_There is laughter and general enjoyment of Roger's song. The boys then agree to get to sleep; they blow out the candles and lie back._

**Int.-- The Loft-- Day**

_The lights are off, but it's bright enough. Mark sits at the table, eating a bowl of cereal. Benny taps him on the shoulder._

BENNY

We need to talk.

MARK

What's wrong?

BENNY

Outside.

**Int.-- The stairwell-- Day**

_The boys talk in hushed voices. Benny holds a bottle of pills, almost full._

BENNY

You've been off them, haven't you?

MARK

I don't think I need them anymore.

BENNY

Don't you think that's for the doctors to decide?

MARK

No, I don't.

_He turns to go, but Benny grabs his arm._

BENNY

Well, I do.

MARK

Let me go, Ben.

BENNY

Don't you remember what happened before?

MARK

Of course I remember. But you don't. You weren't there. Anyway I can't afford them anymore, so…

BENNY

I'm sure if you spoke to your parents--

MARK

You know, that really isn't the life I want. Please let go of me.

BENNY

No. Not until you listen--

MARK

Roger!

BENNY

I'll tell him.

MARK

Don't. Benny, just leave it alone. Please!

BENNY

I don't think that's best for you.

MARK

I really don't see how that's your decision to make.

BENNY

I have your best interests at heart.

MARK

I'm not a child.

BENNY

I know that.

MARK

No, I don't… I don't think you do. And this needs to sto-- G-d dammit, let me go!

BENNY

Will you just listen--

MARK

_Roger!_

_Footsteps, then Roger emerges, looking worried. Mark tears away from Benny and goes over to Roger._

TO BE CONTINUED!

Probably not until I get back from vacation, though. Sorry...

A note on formatting: I'm not changing the story to script format. I doubt I could do that for a drama. The reason this chapter is in script format is that it's a Benny chapter. I have no read on Benny. If this was prose, you still would see nothing of intent-- why Roger wants to go camping, etc.-- because it would all be Benny. I don't think I can write a convincing Benny, so in my opinion writing script format does the story a better service than writing poor prose.

Yes, the remaining non-Benny chapters will be in prose.

I couldn't believe it… People who had never reviewed before were jumping in to tell me they didn't like it! Jeez, guys!

That being said, reviews would still be very appreciated.


	5. Zillah

Disclaimer: RENT is the brainchild of Jonathan Larson. I'm just playing.

He found Roger on the roof, his shoulders curled inwards. The sun was setting, tossing a bright glow towards Roger. The ends of his hair caught specs of lights but his eyes were heavily shadowed, averted from the light. The eastern sky behind him was darkening.

He had the appearance, Benny thought, of something holy, some innocent youth or saint. Then he caught himself thinking this and shook his head. _I am not a Catholic,_ he reminded himself, _nor do I particularly like Roger._

Yet he sought his company, here, on the roof.

"Roger."

He looked up. "Hello, Benny."

Benny's throat went dry. He forced himself to stand straight as he said, "I'd like to talk to you about Mark. I don't know your history with him, but over the past few weeks I've seen how close you two are."

"I'm his best friend."

_And I'm a poor substitute._ "Right, well, I want to know what your intentions are."

For the first time that day, Roger looked straight at Benny. "My intentions?"

Benny sighed. "If you're going to carry on like this, you have to stick around, Roger," Benny said. "I don't know what happened five years ago, but it obviously took a harsher toll on Mark than it did on you, and I don't want to see him get hurt again."

"Again?" Roger repeated. He stood and took a few steps in what was very distinctly an hostile advance. "You weren't around the first time, Benny, you don't know what happened." An itch prickled at the back of Roger eyes, but he refused to cry. _Not in front of him…_

"I know that," Benny admitted, "but I helped pick up the pieces with Mark, and--"

"And _shit_," Roger interrupted. "Benny, you don't know what happened and you don't know what you're talking about."

"I know I care about Mark--"

"And I don't?" Roger waited. Benny said nothing; he looked away. "Fuck you."

"I only want--"

"Fuck you!" Roger's hands shot out and shoved Benny hard on the chest.

Benny left him alone.

Get hurt.

Roger sighed. He had never meant it to hurt Mark, never thought it would last. He was merely a problem, a spec, a blip… _When I was sixteen,_ Roger reminded himself. _I was sixteen, I didn't know, I didn't think. I was too much under Dad's thumb to understand._

Guilt twisted his gut. Roger grasped the low wall as his knees went weak. "I didn't know how to know," he whispered, but the pain would not ebb.

---

"Honey, it's so good to hear from you! Eli-- Eli, it's Mark! Your father says hello. How are you?"

Mark smiled, all too glad of the knowledge that he needed never see his parents again. "I'm doing great, Mom. I'm living in a nice place--" Collins covered his mouth to keep from laughing aloud "--with, actually, my friends from high school! Remember Roger and Thomas?"

"Oh… yes."

"Yeah, I'm living with them!"

"Well… that's… that's great, honey!" Mrs. Cohen's cheer was too forced.

"And I'm working," Mark added. "I have a good job."

Mrs. Cohen told him, "That's great," once more, this time as though she truly meant it. "Oh! Your father wants to know if there are any girls in the picture."

Unbidden, an image rose to Mark's mind: Roger, as he had been just the day before, stepping out of the bathroom with his hair soaked, a goofy grin, wearing nothing but a towel… "Um, no, not right now," Mark admitted. "But I'm sure it'll happen soon."

Roger pushed open the window and climbed in. As Mark watched, unblinking, Roger breezed past him and began fumbling around in his room.

"Listen, Mom, I have to go. I'll call you again soon, okay?" He hung up without awaiting an answer and headed for Roger's room. He knocked before pushing open the door. "Roger?"

Roger paused. He stood by a couple of milk crates that held most of his belongings, holding in one hand a lighter and a piece of aluminium foil in the other. "Uh… yeah, Mark? Can it wait just a couple minutes?"

Mark nodded. "What's that?" he asked, indicated the foil. Something about it felt wrong, like a nauseous lightness in his gut, but he could not understand.

"It's…" Roger cleared his throat. "This is just something to make me feel good."

TO BE CONTINUED!

About last chapter... all right, look. Everyone's entitled to their opinion and for the most part that's what the reviews were, expressing opinion, and that's fine, but it really bothers me when people tell me how to write my story. I'm open to requests and construtive criticism of course, and mostly that's what I got and that's fine, but reviews consisting entirely of commands, that really pisses me off. Let's have a little respect for each other, okay?

I don't know how often "Zillah" chapters will pop up. They're scenes that I feel are important to the characters and/or story, but aren't enough to be full chapters. Anyone who knows why these are called "Zillah"... I dunno. You can request a fic and I'll write it, that's how excited I'll be that someone knows.

Reviews would be awesome!


	6. I Love

At the very least, the discussion of chest hair and happy trails is Katie's.

Disclaimer: It's Jonathan Larson's. I'm just playing. Please don't sue me.

There is a common phrase in books and such, "his lips formed the words". And, I know, lips _are_ used to create some sounds, I recognize the truth in the phrase, but to me it always felt that the part of the lips was to peel back and allow the words passage into the world.

There's a reason I didn't major in science. I don't have the mind for it. I don't _care_ that things are true; my daydreams are immensely preferable. I know what a bumblebee is, but to me the word is soft and cuddly and ticklish.

The selection of my major was issue enough with my parents:

"English! What the hell will you do with a B.A. in English, Marcus? No. It's good for nothing!"

"But Dad," I said, feeling like a five-year-old whining for a piece of candy, "I could get an M.F.A. in creative writing--"

"Mark," Dad groaned. He sounded in intense pain. I glanced at my mother, standing in the doorway, watching this. Why wasn't she helping me? "Mark, in the real world, you have to have a real job. No," he said, shaking his head, "I blame myself for this. I've done a poor job raising you, that you still think these dreams of yours--"

If I didn't speak, if I didn't make myself angry, I was going to cry. "Don't you want me to be happy?" I demanded.

"Yes, Mark! Happy in the real world, not in dreams! Now listen. Do you know how much college costs? I'm not sinking thousands of dollars in your dreams. We let you have them all your childhood. Now you're a man, and you have to accept. You go to Brown. We'll discuss your major-- Biology, maybe. You had an A in Biology. Or even Mathematics--"

"I'm awful at math!"

"You had a B, that's good enough! I won't let you waste your life--"

"I won't let you ruin my life! I hate you! You're horrible! You--" I stopped, not because I had finished speaking but because my father had, for the first time in my life, slapped me across the face. And I could think of no retort.

"Go to your room," he said. "NOW."

I curled up under the blankets and thought about Roger and how much I missed him, and I cried until I fell asleep.

I didn't tell my parents until after the deed was done that I had moved to New York City with Benny, of whom they staunchly approved. Why should I? They would rail and scream and want me to come home immediately for re-indoctrination in How To Be A Good Son 101.

One night in August, I sat up at the table working on my latest screenplay. It was a basic plot, a love story, about two friends, both single and horny, who begin "dating" for the romance and for sex, agreeing that it's just play, it's just to have someone who cares, and that afterwards they'll go back to being "just friends". And it's about what happens when one of the friends begins to date a woman and the other loves him desperately, with a deep, honest passion…

"I don't understand how you could do this to me," I said, speaking for the one character, Neil, who fell in love. "Do what to you? Neil, we agreed, it didn't mean anything. No… I haven't done anything to you-- no. No. Neil, we agreed this would mean nothing to us. Neil, we agreed not to let this mean anything. It was just for fun. It was just to keep us occupied. It was only a salve. Only… only an aspirin, Neil; you stop taking it when the headache's gone.

"That's clever," I told myself brightly. I sighed. "That's _ridiculous._"

I glanced around the loft. Benny and Collins were asleep, but at near midnight Roger had yet to find his way home from the club. At least, I assumed it was a club. Collins had mentioned that Roger had a gig tonight.

I wondered what his gigs were like. Outside of the one in Providence, I had never attended any. He had never invited me… I felt a momentary dejection, then realized that I had not asked to be invited. What if Roger thought I wasn't interested? I certainly was!

"Ooh…"

Poor Roger! Poor Roger, who glanced over my shoulder when he passed by and asked, "What're you working on?" I always covered the page and blushed and said that it wasn't finished, still needed work, was just a first draft, was really just a warm-up or some scribbles.

After about a week of this, Roger had sat down with a bowl of Lucky Charms and told me, "I think your screenplay was the best thing I read in high school. In my entire life." Then he spooned a bunch of bright marshmallows into his mouth.

And what could I say of his songs! Collins told me that Roger wrote his own songs, but I had yet to hear one played, a single one!

I imagined him on stage. They say a proper rock star makes love to his microphone stand. I pictured it, Roger onstage in his jeans and one of those cheesy Hawaiian shirts he loves so much, undone at least the top three buttons, with his guitar, eyes closed, and the crowd going absolutely wild.

I imagined him afterwards, sweaty and smiling and positively giddy. He would be in his silliest mood, hugging and kissing everyone. If I was there, I imagine Roger would cling to me, as he likes to, one arm around my shoulders so that I might bask in what he had and I never could.

And that's what I wanted. I wanted to share in Roger's happiness, his glowing, overflowing ecstasy…

So I propped my head up, forced my eyes open, and waited.

I tried to work on my screenplay, but visions danced through my head, everything from Roger performing on stage to certain activities I had never done and would blush to hear mentioned in the presence of my parents.

The door groaned open. I practically leapt to my feet, then sat down again, loath to appear over-eager. Roger stumbled in, smelling of sweat and alcohol, attempting silence. He headed towards his room, but paused when he saw me.

"Mark?" he asked. He headed over; my hand instinctively covered the page. "What're you doing?" he asked. "It's late."

"I--" _was waiting for you!_ "--was just working," I finished lamely.

Roger nodded as though he understood. Up close, I saw the stubble on his chin and the grey smudges around his eyes. Roger was exhausted. "Well, don't stay up too late," he said. He kissed my cheek, the gentlest touch of his lips on my skin, then wandered towards bed.

"Rog?" I called after him.

He paused. I knew he wanted nothing more than to head to bed and collapse on the soft mattress, but he turned and asked me in a husky, worn voice, "What is it, Mark?"

"Um… do you think I could come to one of your gigs some time?"

Roger was a long time in answering, and when he did, it was to shake his head and say, "It's not really your scene, Mark. I'll play for you whenever you want," he added, but it wasn't the same. Roger did not want me to be a part of his world, and nothing could soften that.

---

August pushed everything down. Posture was forgotten. Bodies did not dry after showers. I lay on my bed in a threadbare T-shirt and underwear, listening to the clock tick. It was eight, maybe later. I was bored, but I didn't know it. Roger and Collins were sitting at the table playing dominoes; I heard the _snact_ as each piece was set down.

The heat pressed down, sweating over me, twisting my stomach into knots…

…or maybe that wasn't the heat.

I rolled off the bed and stumbled for the bathroom.

"Mark?"

Under normal circumstances, I would have taken the time to answer my friends, but this… this was not normal, this was desperate. I crashed to my knees in front of the toilet and vomited.

"Mark!" someone called. Chairs scraped across the floor, but all I cared about was the fact that whoever decided to make toilet bowls out of porcelain is a genius. Oh, they're freezing if you have to poo in mid-winter, but in August, when you're curled around it spewing, there's nothing better. It's so cold… so nice and cold…

I relaxed for a moment and my eyelids drooped. Then I threw up again.

"Mark." Roger crouched down next to me. He rubbed my back. "You'll be okay, Mark. Just get it out, just get it all out." I was doing a fine job without his coaching, but Roger's voice was soothing, and his touch. I allowed him to continue petting me until I had finished throwing up.

Collins handed Roger a mug. "Here."

"Thanks. Mark, you think you can drink a little?" Roger pressed the mug to my lips. I drank and spat; the taste of vomit eased. Roger helped me drink and spit until, when he brought the cup to my mouth, I shook my head. "You okay now?" Roger asked. He wiped some of the sweat off my face. I nodded. "Okay. Let's just get you to bed, okay?"

"Yeah."

I tried to stand, but before I could do more than shift position Roger had scooped me up. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and buried my face in his chest. He wasn't wearing anything but an undershirt and boxers, which is the most any of us wore around the house at that point. Over the smell of puke, I could smell Roger's sweat and feel his chest hair tickling the end of my nose.

This reminded me of my own chest, in fact my entire torso, free of hair except the faintest dust of a happy trail.

Roger set me on my bed and pulled a sheet up over me. My bare legs were drenched in sweat. The sheet clung.

I grabbed Roger's wrist. "Don't go yet," I begged. "Don't, I feel bad, stay with me."

"Okay." Roger stretched out on the bed beside me. I grabbed a handful of his shirt. Roger wasn't going to leave me, not again, certainly not _now_. He must have guessed my thoughts, because he petted my back and soothed, "Shh, baby, I'm not going anywhere. It's okay. I'm here."

"Stay."

"I'll stay," he promised. "I'm right here, Mark."

"_Don't leave me._" I don't know why, but all I could think of was that day five years ago. It was the first time since moving into the loft that I had allowed myself to be completely vulnerable around Roger, and the last time…

"I'm right here, Mark," Roger said again. "Listen-- breathe, okay? Breathe with me…" He coached me through it, calling each inhale and each exhale, and that was the last thing I recall before asleep.

I awoke once, feeling groggy and disoriented and cold. Roger was standing in the doorway with his back to me. "…not in here," I heard him say, his tone short.

"It _is_ my room, Roger," Benny returned.

"Use mine. Mark's been sick all night."

What was going on? And where the heck were my glasses? My mouth tasted and felt like sandpaper. "Roger," I whimpered. I had soaked the sheets with sweat. "Roger, please…"

Roger glanced over his shoulder, then back at Benny, who had apparently ceded and walked away. He shut the door and crawled onto the bed beside me. "It's okay," he said. I whimpered. I was cold and uncomfortable and my brain felt too tight. "Shh." Roger pulled me into his arms. "It's okay, sweetling, I'm here."

"Roger, I'm so cold."

"Okay. I'll get your blanket." It was folded at the end of the bed. Roger pulled the blanket up and tucked it around me.

"No…" I lifted one side of the blanket and dropped it over him. "Stay with me."

---

It was morning when I awoke, and I was alone.

"Uhh…"

My head hurt. I squeezed my eyes shut.

Out in the loft, everyone else was awake. Roger and Collins were talking in low voices; I could not make out the words. Benny was on the telephone, talking to his girlfriend. "Yeah, baby, that sounds… yes, that sounds great. Okay, so I'll see you tomorrow. 'Bye."

"Is that the girl you brought home last night?" Collins asked.

I sat up and found my glasses. They slid on easily; I blink, adjusting to my newfound ability to see.

"Gee thanks," Benny snapped.

Collins replied, "Don't blame him."

Roger entered the bedroom and closed the door behind him. He grinned at me. "'Morning. How're you feeling?"

I pulled a face. "Better," I said. "Thank you for last night."

"It was nothing." He sat on the edge of the bed. "I made you breakfast," he said, pushing a plate and a mug into my hands: tea and toast.

I took a sip of tea. "Thank you." He nodded. "Roger-- um, about last night--"

"There's nothing to discuss--"

"I love you."

He stopped talking. For a moment, I had him speechless, big rock star Roger Davis just looked at me in disbelief. For that moment, I didn't dare breathe, didn't dare hope. Then, slowly, he lowered his head, and my heart began to shatter. "You…"

"You loved me once," I insisted. What he did to me, that pure goodness he made me feel that day five years ago, spun up and overwhelmed me. No one had made me feel so good since, and I had to believe he meant it then.

When Roger remained silent, I persisted, "Ever since I came here, you've touched me and kissed me and held me, and it's different with Collins so it's not just friendship. You love me, too." I had to believe it.

At last, Roger nodded. "Yeah," he said, his voice heavy with regret. "Yeah, I love you, Mark, but that doesn't mean I deserve you. I'm afraid if you let me matter to you, I'll just end up hurting you."

"Well…" I choked back a sob. "Well, it's too late! Because you matter to me already, now, more than anything or anyone. You're the most important person in the world to me. I can't live without you, I tried it for… for five long years I tried, and in five years, I didn't live, not one day." I was shaking my head now, tears gathering in my eyes.

"Mark…" Roger raised his head and looked me in the eye. My breath caught. This was it. Roger about to break my heart.

"Do you think I could take you out to dinner? Maybe this Thursday?"

TO BE CONTINUED!

No one correctly identified "Zillah", so that's still up for grabs.

Please review? Please?


	7. Everything You Know is Wrong

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.

The birds were cuddling on the couch. After at least six years of pining, Mark and Roger had each other, and they were happy and adorable.

Annoying as hell. Annoying. As. Hell. Mark and Roger, a couple of twenty-two-year-olds as white as cum and about as mature as, well, okay, I suppose it would be hypocritical to comment on maturity after comparing two white people to cum.

Aw, fuck it. Mark and Roger were as white as cum and about as mature as yesterday's wine. That morning, Saturday, they were on the couch, Mark cuddled on Roger's lap. Roger kept looking at him and smiling. Requited love is a feeling like nothing else in the world-- I assumed, never having exactly been in love.

"Morning, Collins!"

"Morning, Mark." I paused before asking, "Are you ignoring me, Roger?"

"Yes," he said, not skipping a beat. "I'm ignoring you. In fact, I don't even know who I'm talking to. Mark, babe, help me out?"

Mark said, "I can't. You're beyond help."

I grabbed the Lucky Charms and briefly debated not eating them-- there was enough left for one bowl, but Roger was a Charms fiend; these were like Prozac to him. I glanced at the couch. Roger didn't need Prozac. I did.

"Thomas, are you okay?" Roger asked, showing an unusual level of perception. "Do you need a hug?"

I rolled my eyes. "I need a group of students whose combined brain capacity is not inferior to a gorilla's."

"Gorillas are vegetarians," Roger said.

"So are some of my students." I shook my head. "I thought teaching college, I would have a chance for intelligent discussion."

"Oi!" Roger protested.

"What, _you_?" I asked, mocking incredulity. "I could make a doll with a pull-string. 'Your face is a moron! Suck my cock!'"

We all laughed, Roger harder than Mark. "What's the joke?" Benny asked. He emerged from his bedroom, straightening his collar.

"I'm trite and stale."

"That's not funny, it's annoying."

Roger flipped Benny the bird and returned to cuddling Mark, who murmured something about wishing the two of them could get along. "Morning, Benny." I had yet to find any spark of affection for him, but for some reason Benny liked me. That was reason enough to be polite.

"Morning. Do we have any Lucky Charms?"

"No. _I_ have Lucky Charms…"

It's the brazenness that I appreciate in Roger. He would've called me a cunt, not meaning it of course, and picked marshmallows out of my bowl. Benny just grabbed some Cheerios. I could hear Roger laughing at him.

I didn't dislike Benny. Moments like this, though, I knew that I did not like him, either. He had nothing unique, no spark to make him stand out. I neither liked nor disliked him, despite his predisposition towards me. Apparently he had read about me in some magazine.

Yeah. Twenty-year-old professors get written up a lot. The articles are never accurate. No one wants to read about the desperation for escape, the work as a replacement for unhappiness. "Reckless antics" are chalked up to youthful exuberance, not the need to feel a thrill, to do something wrong so everyone will know that _I, Thomas B. Collins, break the rules._

"Hey, Collins?"

"Yeah, Roger?"

The telephone rang. Benny watched the answering machine, but no one moved to pick up.

"You still got that student who talks to the stuffed cow?"

I rolled my eyes. "Maureen." One of the few names I could remember. Roger was watching me eagerly, awaiting another tale of Maureen's outbursts. "No new stories today, Rog."

Roger pouted. "Tell an old one."

"You do realize that you're older than me and behaving like a child, yes?"

Roger nodded. "Doesn't bother me. Tell a Maureen story, I love the Maureen stories."

"You love Mark, yourself, and cock." I never would have said something like this to Roger-- not seriously. But I also wasn't about to admit, either, that I loved Roger, in the platonic way, as much as I knew he loved me.

"I--"

The message began: "Hi, Tom--" I cringed. No one called me Tom, outside of my parents and occasionally Roger, and even he only meant it to annoy me. Still, I watched the answering machine. A sigh. "It's Nicky." Roger glanced at me, eyebrows raised, and jerked his head, asking if I would answer it. I couldn't. "Listen, uh… I don't even know if this is still your number. I hope it is--"

Roger nudged Mark off his lap, giving him a compensatory kiss on the forehead. He strode over to the telephone and picked up. "Don't call here," he said. "No, I don't care, you don't--… How important can it be? It's been three years and if you weren't enough of a shithead last time-- yeah, you do deserve it. You…" Then his tone changed to one of disbelief. "What?" he hissed.

Roger's eyes widened. He watched me carefully, looking as though he was about to cry. "You asshole," he said into the phone. "No, you can't…. Because you're a fuck, that's why! Don't ever, _ever_ call here again, or I'll castrate you with my E string!" He slammed down the phone.

By this point, we were all staring at Roger. He looked at me, shook his head, then picked up the telephone and hurled it against the wall. "Fuck!" It broke, made a few ringing noises then fell silent. There was a scar on the wall, and Roger stood, trembling, staring.

Finally he turned to me, still shaking, and said, "Thomas…" He swallowed, rubbed his face with his hand and said, "Can we talk in the hall?" I didn't ask anything. Maybe it was easier to be so scared and comfortably numb. I wasn't scared, at that point, didn't think anything wrong except that I had just been called by my ex-boyfriend.

Once the door had closed, Roger told me, "I'm so sorry, Thomas. You need to get an AIDS test."

"What?" I'd heard him, but the words made no sense.

Roger swallowed and squared his shoulders, trembling slightly. "We can go to the clinic today. We'll--"

"Hey," I interrupted. "Roger, don't worry, okay? It'll be fine. My healthy hasn't been any problem lately, has it? This is probably a false alarm."

Roger sighed. He shook his head and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I had hoped you would say," he said, his voice thick, "that it's impossible. That you've been careful."

"Roger--" I had been dealt the death sentence, and he was breaking down. If we had known for certain of the condition, I would have crashed and Roger would have held himself together for me, but we were not certain, and I did not believe it.

"Thomas." He pulled me into a hug, as though holding me would keep me alive. I held him in return, promising that I would be all right, sure he was overreacting. Roger cried for a minute or two, silently, then told me to get dressed because he wasn't taking me to clinic while I was wearing pajamas.

There is a certain invincibility to youth. A child's first instinct is to pet the animal, climb through or over anything that can be climbed through or over, go barefoot. And because they don't believe they can be grievously injured, save in the pleasure centers of their brains which bulge from the excitement, they rarely _are_ hurt. I was twenty and not yet grown out of that stage.

---

"Are you playing any clubs this weekend? Can I come see you?" Mark asked.

Roger was on the couch, playing his guitar. He rolled one eye to look at Mark and said, simply, "No."

"Why not?" Mark tried to demand, but actually whined.

Roger set down his guitar. "Come here." He pulled Mark into his lap and wrapped his arms around him. Roger nuzzled Mark's neck; Mark closed his eyes as a vague, blissful look crossed his face. "You can't come to my gig this weekend," Roger said, between planting kisses on Mark's neck, "because I don't have one."

Later, I would know why. At the time I merely rolled my eyes and said, "Gigs are so unlike real work. Just play to the crowd."

"I work!" Roger snapped, defensive. "I just happen to make a profit off my art, it's still about the music!"

I scoffed. "And that white powder you're stuffin' up your nose every five minutes."

Roger looked at me, his mouth half-open as though churning a reply, then he said, "Fuck you, Thomas." He stormed into his room, leaving Mark upset and me to pick up the pieces.

It occurred to me then how responsibility had shifted. In high school, it was always Mark making excuses to me-- Roger's just having a rough time, Roger just needs his space, Roger doesn't mean that… Suddenly I was the one with the history. I was the one left floundering to explain, and I realized, _I don't have to._

---

We had no telephone, so I had given my work number at the clinic.

There is no way to describe what it feels like to read those words. Emotion, logic, language, they all abandoned me, flushed from my body and replaced with a drilling in my skull and a heaviness in my gut. My life… my life… it was over.

I was twenty.

I was dying.

The world curves and swirls and plunges and dips, in moments like those, because suddenly everything you knew is wrong.

On the bus home the motion rocked me back and forth, swaying my body, as the world swam and blurred as something pushed down against my eyes from inside my skull. I rocked to the motion of the bus. The station was announced. I stood and threw up on the floor.

Nothing would be the same again.

Inside the loft, nothing had changed. Roger was playing his guitar. Mark was listening. Benny was nowhere to be found. I stood in the doorway, watching Mark entranced by Roger's song, and in that moment I hated them both because I would always be alone and they never would. They had each other. I had this sickness, tearing my body apart cell by cell.

"Oh my G-d. Thomas."

Roger practically threw down his guitar, albeit gently, and crossed the room. "Thomas." He pulled me into a hug, holding me a little too tightly, which at that point was exactly what I needed.

TO BE CONTINUED!

You will be seeing more of Collins coping with his diagnosis. At this point, it just seemed that there were too many events tied closely with what happens directly after this, and I thought it would be better as a separate chapter.

Reviews would be awesome! Please review?


	8. Existentialism and Jealousy

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson. I'm just playing with the characters. Anything you recognize, not mine.

COLLINS

"If you were a girl you could cut off your hair," he murmured, petting my head. It had stopped being night and started being morning, and as it became early afternoon still I half-sat, leaning against him and letting him hold me and pet my head. It was true that my hair, if it could be called that, was short, more stubble than actual hair, but it wasn't _baldness_. I was far too vain to be bald.

"But you don't have hair," he concluded. "You have, like… fur."

I rolled my eyes upward and barely glimpse the crown of his head. I reached blindly behind me to smack him. My hand came into contact with some part of his body, and the resultant sound was immensely satisfying. Sadism, schadenfreude, whatever name it's being given, hitting Roger is fun.

"Shut up," I said. "Stop touching my hair."

Roger, predictably, didn't. He rested one hand on the top of my head and said, "I love your hair." I smacked my head back against his chest. Roger would wear the bruise for weeks.

He hadn't left me alone for more than three minutes since the previous afternoon, since I came home and didn't have to tell him the contents of the call from the clinic. That day in the hall, with Roger sobbing briefly onto my shoulder, it was fast becoming my salvation.

Call him dreary, but he had known.

"Well it's nice longer," he admitted, pushing my head forward. "I don't know why you cut it," Roger mused.

It wasn't cut, it was shaved.

"It isn't like hair," Roger continued. He can be like a dog with a bone about absolute nonsense. "It's like--"

"It's not fur!"

"Fine. Fuzz." Roger leaned forward quickly to kiss my ear, filling my head with a loud smacking sound, and dodged back before I could swat him again.

"Stop touching my fuzz," I commanded. Roger snickered and continued petting. "I'm not kidding," I said in the don't-fuck-with-me tone I was struggling to perfect. "Stop."

Roger, being Roger, didn't. "It's like petting a kitty," he said.

"Roger, I swear, I will tickle you until you piss your pants."

He stopped. "You taken your pill yet?" Roger asked. I didn't say anything. No, I hadn't taken my pill. Why? Either it was a mistake and I wasn't sick, or it wasn't a mistake and I was already dead. When you're dead, there's no point in playacting another day of life. Roger's hand rested on the top of my head. I could hear him breathing, suppressing emotion. I felt his chest balloon out with each inhale and collapse under every inhale.

"Have you eaten today?"

"Nothing."

Roger shifted and stood up. He stretched. Since the previous evening, he hadn't changed clothes. In fact he had barely left my room. Now he scratched his neck and said, "I'll be back soon."

While he was gone, I tried to write something. Nothing came, just lines and lines of, _I'm dying, I'll dying, I'm going to die, I'm dead, death dead dying dying I die. So what the hell's the point?_

And I never was an existentialist.

MARK

Dorm rooms are not nice places to live. They are not comfortable or "homey", it doesn't matter how many pictures you tack up of you and Roger, or you and Collins, or those rare few pictures of you and Roger and Collins. It doesn't matter that there's a snapshot of you mother and a snapshot of your father and a snapshot of your sister holding her newborn bastard son.

Still, when I was in the dorm, my mom sent me cookies. I guess it was her way of telling me that she was proud. And I missed her pride.

My eyes cracked open. I reached for my glasses, to cure the world of its current state of blurriness.

"Yowch!" My hand encountered something sharp. I pulled away, found my glasses and pushed them onto my face. The sharp object revealed itself to be Zacktus the Cactus. "Uh… Zack," I moaned, making clear that the plant had wrong me.

I stumbled out of bed and into the 'kitchen', glad the weather had finally turned. I reached up to grab a box of cereal, something I never would have done in my underwear. August meant sleeping in underwear or not at all thanks to the heat, but it had turned September, and turned cold, and now I didn't have to worry about my knickers being pulled up my crack every time I grabbed cereal.

That was half because the underwear didn't fit properly. The other half was Roger's amusement. Yes, at twenty-two, my delightful… **_BOYFRIEND!_ **(the word thrilled me to no end, and I paused in my thought as my heart fluttered about in my chest)

As I was saying, my delightful, attractive, talented and very smelly (at times) boyfriend had a habit of waking up before me. When I stumbled into the kitchen, he would be sitting at the table in a T-shirt and low-rider jeans, slurping the last of the milk from a bowl held aloft with both hands.

Roger would leave the table and when I reached up for the cereal, Roger would give me a wedgie. About half the time this led to groping, which led to kissing, which led to—

But the other half, when someone else was in the room, it led to me blushing, pulling down my underwear and telling Roger not to do that any more.

"_Aw… but babydoll," he drawled, the affected rock star words in an affected rock star tone, and he cupped his hand against the curve of one cheek. I had never been so aware of my own ass as I was in that second. "I love this."_

_I turned and looped my arms around his neck. "I know," I said, "but do you really want to share it with Benny and Collins?"_

_Roger glanced over his shoulder and growled at them. Collins laughed. Benny flipped him off. Roger patted me, almost hard enough that it could be considered a spank. "You're right, Mark." He kissed me. "Maybe you should go put on some clothes."_

Sugar cereal made me miss Mom. She used to send me cookies, a box of cookies along with a letter letting me know how things were at home. I glanced at the empty spool that served as a table.

The wall bore a scar, the last remnant of our telephone. I sighed. Outside, I might huddle against the wind and punch the numbers, staying on the telephone as long as I could with the coins collected from Roger's bedside table (all right, Roger's bedside milk-crate), rambling to my mother and faking interest until the rain began.

And the rain _would_, soon enough, begin.

Around one o'clock that afternoon, I pulled my thumb out of my mouth, fearing one more bite to the cuticle would draw blood. I needed to see someone. I needed to _talk_ to someone. All day, I hadn't spoken to anyone or spoken one word.

Roger was not in his room. The bed was half-made, straightened but not really made up, a half-hearted effort since he didn't particularly care. I knocked on Collins' door before stepping in.

Collins was lying on the bed, facing away from the door. Roger was with him, also lying on the bed.

And they were cuddling.

I froze, my throat tight and refusing to swallow. "Um… Roger," I managed, then pushed my glasses up and shook my head. What was _my boyfriend_ doing in bed with someone else? Even if that someone else _was_ a close friend—

Roger looked up. "Yeah," he said. "What do you need, love?"

_My boyfriend by my side._

"Um… no, nothing."

"All right then."

I backed out and closed the door.

Later, when Roger emerged from Collins' bedroom, I meant to confront him. All the angry words piling up inside my head, I meant to spit them out at him, make him _listen_, make him answer!

But Roger cupped my head and leaned in to kiss my lips. "I'm sorry about this weekend," he said. "I promise something special next!"

I was so busy wondering what Roger had in mind, I didn't stop to ask him what he had planned. I didn't stop to ask what the hell he was doing with Collins. I just said, "Yeah," and kissed him back.

I recovered my wits by the time he'd gone.

BENNY

It's been three months since I began living in the loft.

Maybe it's been three months. Maybe it's been four.

It's been twelve to sixteen weeks since my first shower there, when all the grime hadn't completely come off, when I couldn't wash away the smell of poverty, when the timer rang and the water turned ice-cold.

"Not much hot water," Collins had told me. I didn't realize they had it timed to the second.

I jumped out of the shower, dried off and dressed, and the other three were sitting on the couch, reeking of sweet smoke and laughing, I had no doubt what.

Twelve to sixteen weeks, it's been, since Mark became one of them. Or maybe he always was. Maybe Mark hid from me who he truly was, because when he needed someone I was there, eager to befriend my roommate

When Mark first told me about Roger, I felt close to him, trusted. He told me about his childhood friend.

He never told me about falling in love with him.

I awoke lying on sheets without the itch of poor washing powder and bleach. These sheets were soft and clean, and the pillows light, the blankets heavy. I moaned. It was the best waking-up in weeks.

The red numbers of the bedside clock informed me that it was 3:41 p.m. That clock could be trusted. That clock had never lost its time because our power was turned off. That clock had never been thrown against a wall. That clock had never been programmed to alarm at four o'clock in the morning, by Mark, by accident, and gone off so many times it was thrown out.

Christ, who doesn't love a hotel?

I stood, suddenly conscious of hunger.

In the minibar, there were overpriced tiny bottles of booze and soft drinks and candy bags. I grinned. Her dad was picking up the bill. Why the hell not?

I never even liked bourbon. I didn't like it then. I forced myself to enjoy it.

The shower shut off in the next room.

That shower pounded out as much hot water as a person liked. It would fill the bathroom with fog.

I was definitely headed for a shower.

Alison emerged from the bathroom, wearing a bra under her towel.

I was definitely headed for a shower… but there was something else I needed to do, first.

Alison grinned. She wasn't just incredibly fuckable. Alison liked it. She liked fucking hard all afternoon, she liked gently making love in the evening; she didn't mind sucking. Alison was nineteen years old, in love with sex and in love with me.

This girl was perfect.

COLLINS

The first few drops of rain sounded like wind. It sounded not like water but twigs blown against the window, pebbles thrown to steal attention. Then the deluge began. Rain slammed down against the roof and the walls and the windowpanes.

The clouds were angry.

I pushed myself out of bed, bored by my depression. There were stacks of papers eager to be graded.

In two months, I would turn twenty-one. _Twenty-one._ I was still, at that point, young enough and accomplished enough to be considered a child prodigy. Most had the courtesy not to slap me with that label; it was common enough to make me conscious of it.

At twenty-one, a man should not know the means of his death. It stared at me from the orange bottle of pills left out by Roger.

Never in my life had I thought I would envy Roger. Since the night I saw him in the aftermath of a violent attack from his own father, I knew I would infinitely pity him. Since the rainy day he dragged us out of high school to watch an animated movie, I knew I would love him.

But _envy_? Who could envy Roger? Roger was beaten. He was broken. He was a drug-abusing, all-fucking little idiot. Then Mark came along, and changed all that with a look.

Now I'd give anything to be the falsity of life Roger projects off the stage.

Grading didn't work out.

_Michael. What are you doing, boy? This isn't an analysis, this is a summary. And I now Anne's phrasing. _A Tisch boy and a Gallatin girl. At a guess, she ranted to him and he recorded her ideas. _That's plagiarism. If you can't finish the essay yourself, don't bother. Drop my class. Learn how to write or drop my class._

All right, so grading was not such a good idea.

"Hey."

The door opened, and Roger walked into my room. He was damp from the rain, still huddled under his beloved leather jacket, carrying a plastic bag in one hand. "How's it going?"

"I'm dying, how do you think?"

"Yeah." Roger set the bag on the floor and plunked himself down beside me on the bed. I suppressed the urge to clock him. "You taken your pill yet?"

I rolled my eyes.

Roger pulled something out of the plastic bag: it was a paper bag, white paper with bright, cartoonish drawings on it. "Hungry?" he asked. I reached for the bag, and Roger pulled it away. "Ah! Pill first," he said.

"Roger…"

"You can have the cheeseburger when you take your AZT."

I took the little pill, then quickly shoved the bottle out of sight and snatched the bag from Roger's hands. He had a habit of spending money on stupid things—not expensive things, just stupid things. Still, at that moment, I was glad to have a friend who thought AZT for McDonald's was a good trade.

"You're ok, Rog," I told him. Somehow I couldn't bring out the rest of the truth. I just couldn't tell him, _I think you saved my life. I love you in a totally platonic way._ I just smiled and smacked him playfully, which is how I noticed… "Oh, Roger…"

He sighed and drew himself back. "Leave off," he muttered.

"Don't be an idiot," I told him. "That shit'll just fuck you up and you know it."

"Like you're one to talk."

Not to him. Not for a long time after that.

ROGER

"Hey." Mark is slouched on his bed, curled too close to the book he's reading. He looks up when I come in and blinks at me, and it occurs to me that if he didn't keep his eyes so close to the page he wouldn't need such thick glasses.

I hold up the bag. "Hungry?"

"Mm."

"You coming to the table, or…?"

"You come here," Mark says.

I sit down on the bed and pull out two cardboard containers. "You like the chicken, right?" I ask, offering one box.

Mark grabs the other Happy Meal. "Fuck kosher," he says. "What does a cheeseburger taste like?"

"Better with bacon," I tell him. I tear the top off a container of honey and dunk a couple of limp French fries into it. I watch Mark take a big bite out of a small burger and wonder how he feels about pickles, and mustard, and low-grade beef, but Mark takes that bite and chews and swallows.

He eats the entire burger and I doubt he tastes a bit of it, he's so busy tearing down his father while I take nuggets that claim to be chicken, dunk them in honey and chew them up. I eat all my French fries with so much honey that when it's done my hand is sticky with it.

I raise my hand to my mouth, but Mark says, "Wait."

He takes my hand gently, removes his glasses, and trails his tongue over my palm. Sitting there on Mark's bed amidst the trash of our lunch, he licks and sucks my hand, he feels my calluses and explores my hand with his.

"Big hands," Mark says.

I want to say that I made them bigger playing guitar, forcing them to stretch and grow strong. But I don't say that. It's not sexual.

Mark undoes the first button on my jeans. He's shivering. It could be the cold. It could be. But we're shut up in the bedroom and it's not so cold in here, at least not to me.

"Mark," I say. He pauses. "You don't have to do that."

"Collins…" Mark licks his lips, nervous. "Collins said you've been with a lot of people."

I nod. "A few," I lie.

"Did they satisfy you?" Mark asks.

"Sexually?" I ask. Mark sounds like something out of a porno or a French romance. This boy is not accustomed to relationships with men. He's definitely used to women.

Mark nods. I shrug. "Yeah," I say, "at the time."

"I can satisfy you," Mark says, a seven-year-old too shy to challenge me openly. _I can satisfy you._

"Aw." I pull Mark into my lap. He exhales, his body relaxes, and his shoulders slump enough for me to kiss his hair. "Who ever said that's what I wanted from you?" I ask, holding him. "Hm?" I ask, dropping another kiss into his hair. Mark says nothing.

I ask Mark, invite Mark, "Why don't you stay with me tonight?" I can feel a slight itch starting. There's a few little baggies in my pockets, what Collins saw, what made him piss me off and feel like I need to use it. But fuck him. I'm not an addict.

I gently ease Mark off my lap, stand then kiss his cheek. His face hasn't changed at all in these past five years. "I'll just throw this out."

I gather up the trash; Mark goes into my room and by the time I've shoved all the bags and boxes and used catsup packets into the bin and washed my hand since it's sticky with spit and honey, he's put on a pair of my sweats that are too long for him. But if that's what he wants…

Mark will sleep next to the wall; I don't need to ask. I just pull back the covers for him. Mark crawls into bed and I lay down next to him, and we're nothing but heat and breath and giggling under the covers, shivering away the cold.

The itch is still there, under my skin. It doesn't go away, but I ignore it.

I'm not an addict.

COLLINS

"Tom."

Someone shook my shoulder.

"Thomas."

I groaned and pulled a pillow over my head. "G'way…:"

"Get up. You've got a lecture in like an hour."

"Roger... it doesn't matter."

"Yeah, it does," Roger said, more forcefully than I had expected.

I rolled over to face him. "Look, whether I tell them stuff, or they look it up, or they don't learn it at all, it doesn't matter, Roger. It's not important."

Roger grabbed my pillow and smacked me with it, hard. "Yes it is! You asshole!" Then he stormed out of my room and slammed the door.

There was no going back to sleep then, and when I stepped out of the room, Roger was on the couch, just sitting there, high as fuck. I could've slapped him across the face, and I doubt he would have reacted. Of course, I didn't slap Roger. I just went to work.

For a week, Roger ignored me.

He hadn't done that since high school, but whenever I spoke to him, he looked away. Mark tried to talk to him about it: "What happened between you and Collins?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Roger would inevitably reply, and if Mark pushed the issue Roger would storm into his room and chase the dragon until he felt better.

On Friday, I returned the essays, except Michael's—"I dropped the essays on the train; I thought I'd picked up all of them but I missed yours. I'm really sorry. You can redo it if you want or just take full credit."

Handing out papers at the start of class is something no high school teacher would ever do, and no college professor ever should do. "…best known for his 'leap of faith' theory." I turned to the board and wrote:

K-I-E-R-K-

Then something hit me on the back of the head. It wasn't harmful, but one of my students had definitely thrown something at me. There were a few giggles and a few gasps, and when I turned one particular student was smiling too broadly, eyes shining too bright.

A stuffed caterpillar composed of brightly colored plush spheres and a pair of antennae and googly eyes, was lying on the ground. I picked it up. "Would anyone like to claim… this?"

No one did.

"Are you sure, Maureen?"

Maureen Johnson was in her final year, majoring who knows what and doing who knows what in my class. She had a habit of boycotting bras and saying whatever popped into her mind and laughing at anything remotely sexual or drug-related.

Maureen was essentially Roger with a vagina.

"No," she said, barely able to contain giggles.

I shrugged. "Alright then. As I was saying…"

And I finished at the board, E-G-A-A-R-D. "…the leap of faith states that faith is doubt…"

That afternoon, in the loft, I plunked the caterpillar down in front of Roger. He picked it up. "What's this?" he asked, interested enough to be distracted from his Lucky Charms.

"This was thrown at me in lecture today."

Roger snickered. "For serious?"

"Yeah. So it's all yours."

"Niiice!" To the caterpillar, Roger said, "I think I'll call you Larry."

"Oh, and Roger," I said, continuing the conversation that had ended as a fight earlier that week, "You're an asshole."

A loud beeping sounded as Roger gave his predicted response: "Your face is an asshole."

It's nice to have a routine.

TO BE CONTINUED!

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	9. Not What You Hoped

Disclaimer: you all know it's Mr. Larson's

**Collins **

I like trains. Trains are the best form of transport there is, as far as I'm concerned. Airplanes... Airplanes terrify me. Airplanes are not safe. How often do you turn on the television, or the radio, or open the newspaper, and discover yet another tale of a crashed airplane? Not only does an airplane require the risk of falling thirty-six thousand feet, there's the danger of getting crushed by a burning hunk of metal plummeting down from thirty-six thousand feet.

I don't like cars, either, and neither would you if, when you were sixteen, your best friend showed up soaked and bleeding after flipping a car. I never recovered. I guess that's part of why I always loved New York City. You can walk or take the subway or take a cab; driving is an option, and an unsavory one.

However I will note that I have a drivers' license. It happened while I was working on my doctorate. One summer I spent a weekend at home; my father drove me to a large parking lot, a church I think (because if there was a God, I was gonna need His help), and tossed me the keys. I didn't have a permit or any training, and for a moment I stared at these metal slivers resting on my palm. Finally I managed, "…Dad?"

Dad smiled at me. "Now, Thomas. You mastered calculus at the age of thirteen, I'm sure you can manage the car." It was a beat-up old Nissan. The bonnet didn't close properly and one of the mirrors had fallen off, but the heat and air conditioner worked well. That was nice, since the day was scorching. My first breath on stepping out of the car reminded me of the city in which I was born, where hot air tastes like Cayenne pepper and feels like specks of sand hitting the inside of your throat. The waves of nostalgia made my knees weak.

"Tom," Dad called, bringing me back to reality. "C'mon, kiddo. Let's give this your best shot, ok?"

I sat down in the driver's seat. Dad sat next to me, encouraging me. "Okay. Turn the key like this," he said. I did and the engine started. "Good. Now put the car in reverse." What breed of man considers driving _in reverse_ a good introduction is beyond me. He placed my hand on the gearshift and his hand over mine and guided it to "R". "Okay. Now very, very gently, put your foot on the gas."

I put my foot on the gas pedal and had one of the most startling moments of my life: the car moved. It grumbled and moaned and lurched backwards. I slammed the brakes, sending both of us forward. "Gently, Thomas, gently!" Dad said, once he had regained his breath.

We kept at this until it was dark. At the age of eighteen I received my driver's license and I have not driven since. I'm happy to walk, or take the train.

Now I know, logically, that a train _could_ jump the tracks, flip and crash, but I can't imagine it outside of a cartoon. A train just moves well, too. There's something about the steadiness of the rocking that's almost like being a baby rocked to sleep. You're not stuck in place, either. On a train there is the option of standing, walking, even running.

I thought about all this as a couple of small children raced by, speaking loudly. "...Fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight..." called a little girl with bouncing blond pigtails, apparently counting each row of seats. I watched her and another girl who was probably her sister. When they ran out of the car I slumped back into my seat.

"Shit."

I could swear all I wanted, no one else was in the car. Even the rhythm of the train couldn't take my mind off of what I was about to do.

"Hey."

Of course, there was one person whose full lack of respect for such conditions was more than a lifesaver. Roger thumped down into the seat next to mine, sank down in his mock-shearling mock-sheepskin jacket and nudged my arm. "Here," he said. He dropped a package wrapped in brown paper.

"What the fuck, Roger? Is this a bomb or something?" Yes, Roger is that crazy.

"Would I tie licorice to a bomb?" Roger asked.

I turned the package over: there _was_ a package of red licorice tied to it. Roger reached into his pocket. There was a crackling of cellophane and he popped something in his mouth. "Is that--" I began, but Roger stuck out his tongue. A chocolate gummi bear rested on it.

"Aaaah!"

"Okay! Put that away and brush your damn teeth. The minute we get home, brush your teeth."

"Open your present."

"What?"

"It's your birthday, moron."

I could only say, "What?" It couldn't be my birthday. I would know if it was my birthday, and my birthday wasn't until-- shit. It was November. My birthday is November sixteenth, same date printed on my train ticket. How could I forget my own birthday?

Because I was dead, that's why. Because I had HIV, and I was dead, so what did it matter if I died at the age of twenty or twenty-one?

"Hey." Roger's arm came down around my shoulders and he gave me a shake. "You're still here, Thomas," he said, showing a surprising amount of empathy. "You're still alive."

I sighed. It was easy enough for him to say, when he wasn't sick. "How do I know that, Roger?" I asked. If he had any ideas I would take them. How did I know I would be here tomorrow? How did he? And for a second, I really expected him to give an answer.

Then Roger pulled back and socked me on the shoulder.

**Roger **

"Hi, Mr. Collins." Tom has gone inside and I stand here, on the doorstep, awkward. There was a small amount of powdered happiness in my pocket but I don't think Mr. Collins would appreciate if I sniffed it on his doorstep. "I'm Tom's friend--"

"Roger Davis," he interrupts. He smiles and shakes my hand; he has a good grip. His palm is warm and I feel strange when he holds my hand, safe in a very young way. "Of course I remember you!" I haven't stood on his doorstep in five years, but then, five years ago when I stood on his doorstep for the first time I was soaking wet, crying and bleeding. I guess you don't forget seeing a sixteen-year-old in that state, but Mr. Collins seems pleased to see me and I won't press my luck. "Come inside," he welcomes me, and I do.

I follow the sounds of Tom. He's in the kitchen crumbling chocolate chip cookies into a glass of milk. "Roger," he says. "It's three o'clock."

I excuse myself and _run_. My bag has barely fallen to the floor but I'm sprinting out the front door. I wind my scarf while I run, and believe me that's no easy feat. It chokes me. I stumble. The pavement leaps up at me and my feet accomodate, leaping up and landing with barely a moment lost. It's raining. Drops of water attack my unprotected skin. They're cold. I'm cold, shivering with each of hundreds of rivulets runs across my skin. I yank on my jacket and zip myself into a warming second skin.

Fur, meat and leather are murder. But meat is delicious and leather is warm, not to mention enduring. The fact that I know these things are wrong doesn't stop me doing them. It also doesn't stop me from enjoying them. The leather warms me very quickly and seals the warmth against my skin.

It's a block from my childhood home that I stop running. I can't continue on farther. Can't go nearer my father's house. All the horrible hours spent there, all the awful moments wishing he loved me and fooling myself that he did, threaten to overwhelm me. Why did I come here? Why did I run from Mr. Collins' house, where I was safe and warm and among friends, to come here? I cast about, looking for any enemies, then check my watch. It's eighteen minutes past three o'clock in the afternoon. The school let out at three, or at least it used to, five years ago. Or isn't she in high school yet?

"Roger?"

I shake my head, shake away the rain, and focus. "Hi." A woman stands in front of me, a very pretty woman with a small child in her hands a slightly less small child holding her hand. "I'm sorry, do I--"

"Roger Davis! Oh my God, I can't believe... after all this time..."

She can't seem to form a sentence coherently, can't seem to figure out what she wants to say. The bigger child tugs at her mother's hand and whines, "Mama, it's raining!"

Then it hits me: "Olivia?" I haven't thought of my sister-in-law in years! My brother's wife, who had given birth to her first child shortly before I left home, is standing in front of me, and she remembers me. Obviously her baby girl doesn't. "Roger, come inside. Dry off."

I shake my head. It's a kind offer and were it not my brother's house, were it instead hers, I would be honored to accept. "I can't. I'm waiting for Sarah."

"Sarah? Roger, she's at home. Her school had a half day today, didn't you know?" She asks me all of this with a look of concern. "Come inside. I'll call Sarah." Still I shake my head. I can't stand the idea of having to see Peter again. He's my brother but he doesn't love me and I don't love him. "Your brother's out of town. With your father," Olivia says, and I take her up on her offer.

I sit at her table and have cocoa and oreos with Olivia and my nieces. Her children are Leah and Rachel, and the way she touches her belly tells me something. "You're pregnant again, aren't you, Liv?" I ask without thinking.

She smiles. She smiles a lot... she just doesn't seem happy when she's smiling. She nods. "I'm hoping for a Rebekah," she says. "But what are we telling Daddy?" she asks her girls, and they answer on cue, in unison, "This one's going to be Adam!"

I remember when Peter found out, and I remember what Dad said to him. They were in the living room. I was sitting in the kitchen, and I still remember the contents of the paper I was writing. It was for Mrs. Jones's class, AP United States History, first period. And I was awful at it which, coming from someone aced Euro without trying, well, it was tough. But Jones was unfair in my favor, and I was writing my extra-credit essay for the week on the California Gold Rush.

In 1849 a lump of gold was discovered at Sutter's Fort, actually by Sutter's friend because he was too much of a pussy to wade into the cold river himself. Tom says he was getting over a cold. I say he was a pussy with an excuse. Anyway. Hundreds of people moved to California looking for gold, but the only people to turn a profit were those who overcharged. You could charge a person for doing laundry, charge a person for breakfast, and he had to pay. He'd do it because he wanted to get out to his plot to search for the gold he was sure would make him rich.

I was fascinated with the entire thing. Loving this essay. It tied into the wild cat banks and the Oregon trail, and so many fascinating things -- and those are few and far apart in American history!

Peter had at least said hello to me when he came into the kitchen. I admit, I was less than polite in returning the comment. I returned a little too quickly to my essay and trying to imagine I was drinking beer by drinking my juice straight from the bottle. From the living room, their voices carried. "...guess I was just wishing for a son."

My father assumed that Peter, as all good Catholics, would have more than one child. From the looks of things, he was right. Then he added, "And sometimes..." And he paused. He paused for a long time, and I could feel them looking at me. "Sometimes a son is not a blessing as you'd hope."

**Collins**

_Happy birthday to you,  
happy birthday to you,  
happy birthday, dear Thomas...  
happy birthday to you!_

I laughed along with everyone else and the candles flicker. All twenty-two of them. It wasn't my twenty-second birthday. There should have been twenty candles on that cake, but I'd been calling myself twenty for ages and it was nice, for once, to feel my age. My parents knew it, and because they knew it they put an extra couple of candles on the birthday cake.

I blew hard and didn't even get half of them. I blew twice more. There was one candle left; I leaned over it and blew. It went out, then lit up again. "Okay..." I sat back. "That's just cheating."

"If I may..." Roger reached forward. He plucked the candle off the cake and pinched the flame between his fingers. When he moved his hand, it was gone. He smiled at me. "I guess we'll have to agree on a wish," he joked. And my parents laughed and cut the cake. They both were watching me, and they both were smiling. They both were so proud, my divorced-for-the-last-decade parents agreeing, finally, on this one thing. Nothing could have felt better to have gone from those early years when my parents fought after putting me to bed, always fighting, it seemed, about me... to where we were today. With both of them so proud of me.

I smiled. I had never been in so much pain.

--

On the train ride home, Roger shared his gummi bears with me, holding the bag out to me with a casually turned wrist whenever he wasn't taking one himself. For a long time, we didn't speak. I wish I was thinking anything, but it was just the pain. I began to fear I was dying. I wasn't going to survive. Then and there on that train my intestines would burst. I was done for, then and there on that train, and I wasn't going to die with my loved ones. I was going to die with... Roger.

"How'd they take it?" he asked. I turned to stare in disbelief, but it didn't matter. He hadn't even turned to face me. Roger was staring straight ahead. He was just as lost as I was.

"They didn't," I murmured. Roger turned to look at me and I met his gaze by rolling my eyes and holding a face a parent might warn would stay that way. "Because I didn't tell them." I guess that's an advantage to having a fuckup asshole for a friend. He toussled my non-hair and offered candy.

We were only a few minutes from the station when he told me, "I saw my little sister."

"Oh yeah?" He hadn't mentioned that earlier. "How is she?"

He sighed, and his face crumpled. His eyes darkened. For a moment, Roger covered his eyes and shook, dry sobbing. Then he looked up and he was clear. "She chopped off her hair and dyed it black, put a metal hoop through her nose, and while most kids are focused on acne she's sucking dick to buy her next hit." He shook his head like he couldn't believe it, that his own baby sister had turned into a little drug whore.

The train stopped. We jolted forward gently, and he stood up. He picked up our bags and headed off the train, too quickly for me to keep up. I lost him in the station, but a boy like Roger doesn't just disappear. He waits for you. If I hadn't found him he would've eventual found me, but as it was I found him clutching a sink in the men's room and shaking.

"Roger?" I put my hand on his shoulder. He sobbed, and I realized what Roger had seen. He had seen what I saw every day, someone he loved disappearing from him, not even realizing her love was being eaten up by drugs. Rationalizing, rationalizing prostitution as barely a teenger because that is what addicts do, everything they do is ok through the logic no one else understands -- no one else, that is, who isn't so

Roger wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, then said something I already knew.

"I have to get clean, Collins."

_to be continued!_

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